


Cat and Mouse

by Pygmy Puff (ppuff)



Series: The Stations of Jean Valjean [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Gen, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:26:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9495680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppuff/pseuds/Pygmy%20Puff
Summary: What does life look like for Jean Valjean when the uprising is over and Javert has disappeared?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to complete this series over a year ago. When the entire 2016 went by and I made zero progress, I realized I must write out the last installment that had been swirling in my head or it'd never be done. It's not as polished as I would have liked, but it's finished!

**Paris**

**I.**

What does a cat do when it tires of playing with a trapped vermin? Deal the final, fatal blow, perhaps, then present the mangled mess as a peace offering to the two-legged co-inhabitants of its environment, in hope of bartering the carcass for a gentle caress.

Cosette had screamed then, the first time she almost stepped on a bloodied dead mouse next to the garden bench at 55 Rue Plumet. The cat came with the garden, they later discovered. And like a cheery neighbor, it had sought out the house’s newest humans by bringing them a housewarming gift.

It didn’t take Cosette long to discover that the cat enjoyed bread and cheese.

 

But what of other options? Does a cat spare a trapped mouse’s life after it has expended much energy on toying with its victim? Will it extend mercy?

No, cats know nothing of mercy. It can choose not to kill, but that is not mercy.

At Rue Plumet, the lives of many a cornered cricket had been spared when the garden cat suddenly became enticed with a flying moth. It was possible, Jean Valjean supposed, for a cat to simply lose interest.

But what if the cat was a tiger, and the tiger had had its claws ready to close in on its prize?

What would cause a predator to simply vanish?

-

“Oh, Papa! How good to know that you intend to establish a house for the poor after Marius and I are married! I am vexed that you refuse to move in with us. But I am relieved that you will occupy yourself with charity now that I shall no longer take walks with you.”

“Cosette, my dear, do not concern yourself with me.”

“Then come live with us! Marius’s house is big. He has even prepared a room for you.”

“Not another word. You and Marius will soon be wed. You should have time to each other. I am but an old man –”

“As is his grandfather!”

Jean Valjean sighed. It hurt him so to deny Cosette’s request. But he must stay away. It would be safer for her if he ceased to remain in her life.

“Will you at least come visit, Papa?”

He hesitated. He hated lying to Cosette.

“Of course I will visit, my dear. We will plant strawberries together.”

-

The house for the poor was little more than a hovel, hastily repurposed from a crumbled tenement into a structure with four walls, four stories, and a roof. In these months following the summer insurrection, help to rehabilitate the building was easy to find. Jean Valjean could almost understand, now, the reason that Marius’s friends gave their lives away in the name of a better society. The street was full of gamins willing to put in a day’s hard labor for only a few _sous_ _._ He could not hire everyone, but those whom he enlisted to rebuild the house, he paid generously. He didn’t know how else he would spend his money, after first Marius, then M. Gillenormand himself, insisted on his keeping the six hundred thousand francs upon learning of his charity project.

He opted for practicality over frivolity. Paris’s poor would benefit more from a serviceable house than one adorned with intricate architectural elements that would delay the home’s opening. And so when the final brick was laid and basic furniture procured, Jean Valjean wasted no time in welcoming the local parish’s poor, those that M. le curé could not tend to. Ten families were housed permanently. During the day, anyone wishing for a respite from the streets could enter in. Words spread. The kind M. Fauchelevent was wont to provide food, teach letters to the young, and take the sick to the hospital.

**II.**

It was right after the fiacre accident, when young Pierre was too injured to be called upon by a house doctor and had to be transported to the hospital immediately, that he saw him.

Pierre was taken to a different section of the hospital, where doctors would mend him and he would recover. As he waited, Jean Valjean paced the corridors. He passed an area filled with many cots. He hadn’t intended to linger; the sick and injured were grey-skinned and gave off the stench of death. But when his eyes fell on a familiar figure, he felt as if all the air in his lungs had been sucked out of him.

“How long has he been here?” Jean Valjean asked when a nurse finally approached. He had been staring at the unmoving body long enough for the faint spot of sunlight on the bed sheet to have moved several centimeters to the right. He wanted to ask more. _How did he get here? Who found him? Do you know who he is?_ But his throat had gone dry.

The nurse looked at the unconscious body with compassion. “Eight months, perhaps nine? He’s been here since the summer. Someone found him unconscious at the bank of a river, lungs filled with water and head burning with fever. Several broken ribs as well.” – she tilted her head to indicate the rail-thin torso – “It was a miracle he didn’t die within the first few days he was brought here.”

A frown crept upon Jean Valjean’s face as he fixed his gaze upon the man who had haunted him most of his life. Javert, his predator. The tiger didn’t lose interest; he’d merely lost the ability to pounce. When Javert recovered, _if_ he recovered...

“Has he regained consciousness during his time here?”

The nurse shook her head.

“The doctor wasn’t overly concerned at first, said his body needed to mend before his mind could resurface. But it is nearing a year now...”

In the unforgiving surrounding of the hospital ward, Javert looked waxen, lifeless but for the occasional rise and fall of his chest. His features were still severe — Javert frowned even in his sleep — but Jean Valjean no longer found him formidable. The hospital workers had kept his whiskers trimmed... Jean Valjean wondered whether hair and nail lengthened in the same pace when someone was unconscious. He noticed an empty bowl set on a wooden chair beside the cot and felt relief over a concern he did not realize he had. The nurses had been feeding Javert broth. Despite the hospital’s limited capacity, he was cared for here.

The nurse followed his eyes and understood what he did not ask. “An older officer of the police visited shortly after M. Javert was brought here. He was the one who identified him. The same officer returned about a week later and brought with him a large sum of money. He said this was M. Javert’s well earned compensation for years of serving the police. We are a hospital for the poor, Monsieur, and our resources are thin. But with the money, we can ensure he remains here until he wakes.”

Jean Valjean glanced at the nurse. She didn’t appear certain that Javert would wake again. What if...

“What would happen, if he does not regain consciousness?”

The nurse bit her lower lip, a gesture of uncertainty that made her suddenly appear too young. She looked toward Javert as if caressing his forehead with sight, ascertaining that he was no longer feverish. There was compassion in her eyes, but not pity. Jean Valjean was glad for that. Javert would spurn pity.

“I suppose we will find out, Monsieur. The money under M. Javert’s name will last two more years. I pray that God would be gracious in healing him within this time.”

Jean Valjean remained standing over Javert for another long moment. Tried as he may, he could not echo the nurse’s prayer. For to call on God’s grace to wake the beast would mean the return of fangs and claws. He recited the Our Father instead.

_Thy will be done._

**III.**

“Would you deliver the letter for me, Monsieur?”

The glare directed his way was not unexpected, though Jean Valjean still could not understand the mind of someone so loathe to be honored with respect.

“Do not _Monsieur_ me, I’m not respectable like you. And I’m a scribe, not a messenger. Deliver the letter yourself.”

Jean Valjean protested, “I can’t possibly –”

“Go visit your daughter? That’s rubbish!”

“But she has a daughter of her own now, a newborn!”

“All the more reason for you to visit. You have not yet met your granddaughter.”

“She’s not my –”

“She is every bit your granddaughter!”

“Marius would not agree.”

“That’s because Marius is a dolt. And you, Jean Valjean, are insufferable.”

“Claude!”

In moments like these, Jean Valjean wished his past wasn’t laid out so plainly for another person to see. The person in question had known the different stations of his life, had encountered him in his multiple identities. Claude had sought him out, having heard about the benevolent M. Fauchelevent of the home for the poor. Neither man expected a single visit would turn into something akin to partnership, two years later.

Jean Valjean slipped the letter into his coat’s inner pocket, a gesture of surrender.

“Very well,” he huffed. “I will deliver my congratulatory letter to Cosette in person, so I can recite to her face the very same words that I wrote to her.”

He started walking toward the door, but paused when he realized he should not delay the matter any longer. He turned to Claude. “And what of you? Have you given thought to my offer?”

“With all due respect, Monsieur –”

“I am no longer young. I need someone to run the house for the poor after me. You have been a constant presence to the residents here. You teach the children how to read and write. You are not just a scribe. Help me manage this place.”

Claude did not immediately answer. A good sign.

He pressed on: “This will give me more time to make hospital visits and give alms. If you manage this house, more of Paris’s poor will benefit.”

Claude cast a glance upward, as if he could look into the apartments in the upper three stories and see the occupants there. Despite their initial hesitation, these occupants had come to welcome Claude’s visits. There may still be traces of the former convict in him, but Claude the Scribe had mellowed into Claude the Teacher over the past two years, and Jean Valjean could barely recall their very first encounter in Montreuil-sur-Mer, when Claude was still steeped in the hatred of the _bagne_ like he once was.

Claude’s voice brought him back to the present. “If I take over management of this house, should I still leave a bed empty?”

The question was not meant to provoke, but Jean Valjean still felt a stab of shame boring into his conscience.

He shook his head.

“There is no need. I deposited some funds with the hospital when his money ran out. They will keep him there as long as it is necessary.”

He couldn’t meet Claude’s eyes, his shame spilling over into every limb of his body. What right did he have to talk of charity and redemption, when he could not follow through with a plan as simple as receiving Javert into this House for better care? M. Fauchelevent may be willing, but Jean Valjean, the mouse dangling under the tiger’s grip until providence intervened, was too cowardly to extend charity to a man in need.

It was always easier to throw money at a problem. Charity was not the mere dispensing of funds, but a way of the heart. He could dispense enough francs to keep Javert in the hospital for the remainder of his natural life, but Jean Valjean knew that it was not charity.

And now he was shirking his responsibilities at the House as well, passing the work onto Claude, ceasing to imitate his Savior in the washing of feet to serve the poor. He could see it: M. Fauchelevent walking through the streets like a Pharisee, bestowing riches because it was easy, because it would not require anything of him.

He was tired. Tired of waiting for the uncaged tiger to wake. Tired of the constant fear to have to run should anything he undertook become too successful and attract the authority’s curiosity. Tired of scrubbing Jean Valjean off of M. Fauchelevent, only to have the wretch return to mar the gentleman’s skin over and over again.

“You did the charitable thing by looking after the inspector,” Claude said, his voice sounding muffled to his cottoned mind. “I didn’t think it was wise to move him here given, well, your circumstance.”

“He did wake once.” Jean Valjean swallowed, trying to push down disappointment when he should have felt gladness. “The nurse told me. Four months ago. He opened his eyes and muttered some incomprehensible words. She didn’t think he was fully conscious. It lasted only seconds before he succumbed again to blackness.”

If Javert woke once, he could wake again. His freedom may yet be numbered. Jean Valjean reminded himself to hasten the process of passing on the operation of the House to Claude. He’d heard about what happened to his former factory employees at Montreuil-sur-Mer. He would never again doom people to hopelessness because of him. And he must no longer put Cosette at risk of disgrace.

Closing the door of the House behind him, Jean Valjean took the path toward Rue de l’Homme Armé. He could not endanger Cosette by being seen in her presence. In fact, he must cease all correspondence with her.

He burned the letter upon arriving home.

**IV.**

Winter gave way to spring, the warmer weather providing the needed excuse for Jean Valjean to convince Claude he would be taking a long journey, and that the younger man should send word to let Cosette know. The meeting to relay his plan to Claude was unpleasant, but Claude did not ultimately object to his complete withdrawal from all the affairs of the House. He supposed it was for the best, with the House now fully under Claude’s management. Claude would have neither reason nor desire to have anything further to do with him.

He took walks around the city when summer came. He was always careful to avoid areas where he might cross paths with familiar faces. Unfortunately, this meant he had to stop giving alms to the very poorest, where anyone associated with the House would pass word to Claude that M. Fauchelevent had returned from his journey. He did leave Paris for several days, taking a carriage into the countryside with no destination in mind. When he returned, the city suddenly felt suffocating, and he no longer walked the streets for pleasure or leisure.

When autumn arrived, he stopped attending evening Mass daily.

-

Winter felt unusually cold this year, the chill biting into his bones despite the fire that Toussaint now insisted on lighting in his chamber everyday. Jean Valjean hardly left the room these days. His only regret was not saying goodbye to Cosette. Perhaps he should have visited that day to see the baby and tell Cosette in person that he would be going away. Did the baby look like Cosette? Did she look like Fantine?

He felt especially weak today, his back stiff and his knees aching. Fighting his body’s protest against the cold, Jean Valjean rose from his bed and took out the battered valise that held his secret — his most prized possessions — over the years. Kneeling down, he laid the case on his bed as if praying to the ghosts of his past. He took out Cosette’s mourning dress, her scarf, her boots, her stockings... so small in his hands were they that the outfit, when assembled in full on the bed, resembled a doll’s clothing.

The Lord giveth and taketh away. Who was he to question God’s providence, when he was allotted a set amount of days to have Cosette under his care? Jean Valjean felt the full weight of his sins at the realization that he had coveted more than what he was given, that even now he was coveting, wanting to lay a claim on a pure soul that he had no right to be with, not anymore.

Cosette was a tiny child of ill health when he had first rescued her. Jean Valjean wondered if her daughter might grow to be Cosette’s size at half her age, with the excellent care she was most certainly receiving at the Gillenormands. He choked out a chuckle through a lump gathering in his throat. Surely there would not be an occasion for the child to don a mourning dress in the next decade. M. Gillenormand could well live for another fifty years.

The air around him was cold, but there was a fiercer chill in his heart. Cosette’s light had gone from him. What good he did in the past three years had also left him; that light was now entrusted to Claude. Even the light of God had departed from him when he stopped attending Mass. How appropriate, Jean Valjean mused, for his final days to be spent in the cold, in mourning. He passed a hand over his face, wiping away tears that wouldn’t stop. He leaned forward, planting his head onto the bed. _Take me now_ , his heart pleaded with God, his voice too lost in convulsing sobs to form words.

-

The room was warm. Too warm, he thought. Under the cover in this heat, he could even feel his toes.

Jean Valjean snapped his eyes open. When had he fallen asleep, and how did he get into his bed? He looked around, frantic, for the valise.

“All the items are returned to the valise. It is under your bed.”

He gasped. That voice. He looked to the door of his chamber.

_When the tiger has caught its prey, does it deliver the fatal blow?_

“Javert.”

He looked... hale. It was as if life had returned to a dead body. It may well have been. The Javert leaning against the door, arms crossed and demeanor relaxed, did not resemble any memory Jean Valjean had of the man. This Javert wasn’t about to draw his pistol.

And this Javert had spoken to him using _vous_.

In Toulon, prisoners were not allowed to make eye contact with guards. Nor could anyone address a guard by name and be spared punishment for insubordination. But Jean Valjean was not a prisoner here. For no prisoner would address a guard with gladness in his heart.

“Javert, you’ve recovered! I am truly relieved,” he said, meaning every word.

A shadow passed through Javert’s visage, and Jean Valjean realized for the first time that Javert must have seen unspeakable horrors, rendering his body and mind so broken that darkness would take hold of him for years. He chided himself for his cold-heartedness. He had never wondered what happened to Javert.

They regarded each other for a length of time, each lost in his thoughts. Belatedly, Jean Valjean realized that he was no longer afraid. Javert could demand to take him away this very instant, and he would welcome his arrest, welcome certain death.

He was tired.

His weariness must be visible, for Javert approached the windows and drew the curtain shut, blocking out the morning sun.

“Sleep,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

Jean Valjean slept.

-

When Jean Valjean opened his eyes again, it was dark outside. Javert had drawn back the curtains, letting in the faint light of the moon. On the far side of his chamber, a fire roared. It was warm.

Food appeared before him, a tray of stew and bread, Toussaint’s cooking.

“Eat.”

Though he did not feel hungry, Jean Valjean obeyed. This was the right order of things.

Wasn’t it customary for the butcher to fatten the calf before slaughter?

Each spoonful of stew felt like sinking weight hurled into his protesting stomach. He wasn’t used to this much food anymore. When was the last time he had eaten more than a few mouthfuls of broth?

He eyed the remaining half bowl of stew and the untouched piece of bread mournfully. “Javert, I cannot...”

A relentless gaze on him was his only reply. Feeling like a chastened child, Jean Valjean forced down another spoonful. It took immense effort to swallow the chunk of carrot that he had inadvertently scooped into his mouth.

When he finished all the broth of the stew, leaving the few pieces of meat untouched, he chanced a glance at his keeper. Javert was clearly unhappy with his failure to comply with “Eat.” But the tray was nonetheless removed from his lap, and Jean Valjean felt relief wash over him even as a thought in the back of his mind warned that now could be the time when Javert would cuff him and lead him away.

But instead of cold metal on his person, it was Javert’s hand that gripped his chin and forced him to meet his gaze. Javert had lit the lamp in the room while he ate, but even with brighter light, Jean Valjean could not read the emotions behind those grey eyes.

“What have you done to yourself, Jean Valjean? You fool!”

Javert was angry.

“Fool! You have all the riches of M. Madeleine and yet you live like a pauper. You have family, yet you refuse to see them. You have started a charity, and yet you deny yourself the chance to do God’s work.”

“How –” For someone who had just recovered from a coma, Javert knew far more about his life than he should. “How did you –”

“I’ve observed you, Jean Valjean! First you went away. When you returned, you no longer took to the streets. There was never any missive to or from your home. You stopped going to the market, relying on your portress to meet your daily needs. Then you stopped attending church.”

Javert’s spittle landed on his face. Javert was angry, the thought circled in his mind. But why was he angry, and why were there veins protruding from Javert’s temples?

“What game are you playing, Jean Valjean? Are you trying to be a martyr even now? Was the spectacle at Arras not enough? Must you sever yourself from everything good in your life? Or are you so selfish? Tell me. Are you so intent on breaking your daughter’s heart?”

“Cosette? What – No!”

Javert could hurl all manners of insult at him. Anything but to accuse him of hurting Cosette, the only treasure he tried to protect in life.

“Your denial doesn’t make what I say false,” Javert’s spat, nostrils flaring. “Remember, I do not lie. How do I know so much, you want to ask? Well! I recovered from my unfortunate condition three months ago. I’ve had a lot of time to observe you. And I have spoken to your daughter.”

“You –”

_Did you tell her? Does she know? Have you ruined everything I tried to put in place to protect her?_

_Does she hate me now?_

He felt a thumb swipe at his cheek and realized tears were falling. Javert’s expression was once again unreadable. It wasn’t what Jean Valjean expected. Where was the triumphant glee, or the contempt for a convict who had lied about his identity, even to his own daughter?

The hand released him, but Jean Valjean could not look away. It was Javert who avoided his gaze, turning in his chair, directing his face away from the bed to look out the window into the evening sky.

Javert’s shoulders were tense. His posture was impeccable, but the stiffness with which he carried himself was not one of professional confidence. It was as if Javert was... hesitant.

Jean Valjean was never one to comprehend Javert, and he didn’t care to attempt it now. Instead, his mind was flooded with images of Cosette, of how horrified she must have been to discover that she was raised by a convict. Perhaps Marius was there to comfort her, to reassure her that she needed never to have anything to do with him again, that her life as Mme. Pontmercy would henceforth be free from the shadows of an unspeakable past. He hoped to God that M. Gillenormand or his sister was not present when Javert revealed the truth. How would they react to such a disgraceful revelation? How might Cosette have to suffer disgrace for his crimes!

Maybe he should urge Javert to arrest him now, to get through with it. For he truly had nothing more to lose.

Just as he was about to speak, Javert turned his gaze back toward him.

“They named her Jeanne, your granddaughter. Cosette and Marius know nothing of your sister from Faverolles, so the child was named after you, since you have somehow insisted that they call you M. Jean. They had wanted you to be present when they christened the child. It was their biggest regret that they did not send word to you about the baptism before you departed on your supposed long journey. They do not have the faintest idea of where you have gone, or why you have stopped writing. Your daughter thinks it is her fault, that she has mistreated you.”

Cosette wanted him at the baptism...

“You did not tell her? About me?”

The veins reappeared on Javert’s temples. “It is not my place to tell her,” he said through gritted teeth.

“But how would I –” He couldn’t, mustn’t. Hope was always a fickle sentiment. He ought not allow himself to hope. And yet...

“Do you mean – Inspector, you are not –”

“I haven’t been an inspector for three years.”

Jean Valjean leaned back against his bed, squeezing his eyes shut. No, of course not. The Prefecture would not have held the position of inspector open until Javert could fully recover. And Javert, for all his zeal, was not someone who acted outside of the Law. If he presently had no authority to make an arrest, he would not attempt it. Nor, it seemed, was Javert inclined to denounce him to the police. Could it be? Was he free at last?

“You must regain strength in your body,” Jean Valjean heard through his clouded mind. “Heal the body first, then the spirit. That was what the doctor at the hospital told me when I awoke. And –” Javert breathed deeply. “You no longer have anything to fear, Jean Valjean. Your case was long closed upon your supposed death after the Orion incident. It was always only I who was in pursuit of you.”

He opened his eyes. Javert had become tense again.

“You saved my life, twice. You provided the funds to support me. I should thank you.”

Javert didn’t let him speak before he bolted out of his apartment. Jean Valjean took in the sight of the former inspector, still proud in his plain clothes, leaving his chamber, perhaps leaving his life for good. But his directive was clear: mend the body, then make amends with Cosette.

As he drifted to sleep later in the evening, Jean Valjean thought it was more proper to liken Javert to the garden cat than to a prowling tiger. Javert had come to him with an unpleasant truth: the damage that his selfishness had wrought on Cosette, breaking her heart. But was the offending carcass not also a peace offering? Jean Valjean wondered if he would see Javert again. If they crossed paths in the future, then perhaps he would be allowed to extend his thanks.

**V.**

There was a rumor that Inspector Javert was with the police again, the gamins who daily roamed the streets whispered to one another as Claude lost the battle of trying to silence them for his lessons. The man cast a glance at the visitor to his classroom today, concern written clearly on his face. Jean Valjean answered with a reassuring smile and a shake of his head. _No need to worry_ , he willed Claude to understand what he could not say in present company, _I do not fear Javert anymore_.

 - 

“Grandpa, up!”

Jean Valjean scooped little Jeanne up into his arms. The child had tired herself after insisting on walking on her own from the church to a nearby garden. This had become their Sunday ritual: Mass in the morning, then a walk to the garden. The Pontmercy family would return home while he would walk on to the House for a midday meal with Claude. He would then tend to whatever was needed before going back to Rue des Filles du Calvaire — his home now — in the evening for supper.

He kissed Jeanne’s cheek, inhaling her sweet scent that at once sent him back into Faverolles and anchored him in the present, surrounded once more by a loving family. How undeserving he was for all the riches and blessings God had bestowed upon him! In a few years’ time, this precious child would grow into Cosette’s age when he had first met her, and unlike the escaped convict and the neglected girl who were once forced to live in the shadows, Jeanne would live in the light and would blossom like the most extravagant flower. Jean Valjean felt a rush of love overwhelming his heart. He would give anything for little Jeanne, the child of his beloved Cosette.

“Hello!” Jeanne was looking behind him, waving at someone.

Supposing Cosette and Marius had caught up with them, Jean Valjean turned around.

Some distance away, a man with impeccable posture took his hat in hand and tipped his head, directing a greeting normally reserved for gentlemen his way. Jean Valjean could not make out the man’s expression, which was hidden under thick whiskers. But he fancied seeing the man’s features easing, suspending the habitual sternness etched on that face in favor of a brief moment of peaceful acknowledgement.

Javert — Inspector Javert once again — looked well.

Jean Valjean dipped his head in return. _Hello._

Jeanne was still wiggling in his arms and waving when Javert retreated into the shadows.

The tiger had chosen to release its prey.

He was free.


End file.
